


Only If For A Night

by Idiosyncrasies



Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Torchwood
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-28
Updated: 2012-11-28
Packaged: 2017-11-19 18:08:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/576160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Idiosyncrasies/pseuds/Idiosyncrasies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You had to lie to ghosts. They didn't know better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Only If For A Night

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the Florence + The Machine song of the same name.

Jack’s vortex manipulator hadn’t worked quite right in years—at least, that was the excuse he went to whenever he couldn’t figure out how to do something. It took him many hours of failure to learn to get the thing working with contemporary technology, so his once-great little gadget was often nothing more than a juiced up mobile phone. It didn’t always work (he’d called the 1920s for a pizza several times), but generally Jack got it right.

Over time, he learned how to execute telephone calls with precise control over when they would be delivered. Sometimes he used this trick to remind himself of something; sometimes he actually called someone in real-time.

Sometimes he pressed a few buttons and aimed back to the 21st century. It was like staring down a long, dark tunnel, at the end of which were so many better things. It would be easy—like cake, really—to call the Hub, to hear a familiar voice. Jack stopped himself every time, though.

Until one night he didn’t.

He picked a pretty memorable date: the second of February, one of the few days he himself had been away from the office, and called. And, just like he expected, Ianto was there on the end.

“Hello, Sir,” the ghost greeted, and Jack was sure for a moment that he might sob, or vomit, or yell. You’re dead, Ianto, you’re dead. Don’t do that.

“Hey,” Jack managed to say before the silence went on too long. He heard the cracks in his own voice and immediately wanted to take them back. Ianto would hear them, want to take them in his hands and press them all back together again—Ianto would want to rescue Jack, like he’d always done. Like Jack wanted now.

“Jack?”

Somehow, Ianto’s voice got softer.

“Are you all right?”

“Fine,” Jack said, with purpose this time. “The air here’s not great.”

You had to lie to ghosts. They didn’t know better.

“Oh, all right.” Jack could hear the smile on Ianto’s face; he wanted to kiss it.

“Yeah. Just called to hear those beautiful Welsh vowels.”

That undercurrent of a smile became an audible chuckle.

“That’s harassment, Sir.”

Jack liked that. The revisiting of an old joke between them. Nothing was broken yet. Not for a few more minutes.

“How’s everything?”

“Fine,” Ianto sighed. “Tosh’s been managing the Rift spikes. Nothing you need to worry about.”

“What about Owen and Gwen?”

“Just fine,” Ianto repeated. Jack could hear him shift at his desk and wondered if he was wearing his usual suit—wondered if he’d come home the next night and found Ianto in his office and stripped off that suit and slammed their bodies together, if he’d kissed Ianto like he needed him.

And if he had done it then, he hadn’t done it enough.

“Anything in the local news?”

Jack was running out of excuses to hold onto the ghost now, and they both knew it, even if one of them didn’t know he was a ghost.

“No, Sir.” Ianto’s words came slower now. “Don’t worry about us, Jack. We’re fine.”

No you’re not, Ianto. You’re dead.

Jack nodded, then remembered that Ianto couldn’t see.

“Right—right, I know.”

A laugh floated across from Ianto’s end of the line and dug its way into Jack’s heart.

“I’ll see you soon, Sir. You concentrate on yourself.”

For a moment Jack forgot the reality of things and he laughed.

“Which of us is the boss here?”

“You, Sir.” Jack could see Ianto rolling his eyes.

“Don’t you forget it.”

“Never. Godnight, Jack.”

“Goodnight.”

When the line closed and Ianto was gone, Jack let out a little noise that had been caught in his throat. He reached up to push it back in and found moisture on his face, so he let it happen. He cried, and it did not make him better—it made him emptier, like someone had blown open his chest. He had done it to himself, found the old pain and woken it up again and called it medicine.

And it hurt, but he knew he would do it again.


End file.
